


I Made a Promise to the Moon

by Liquid_Lyrium



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Relationships, Body Horror, Dragon Genji Shimada, Dragon Hanzo Shimada, Ghosts, Intrigue, M/M, Magic and Science, Necromancy, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, POV Multiple, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rating May Change, Secrets, Urban Fantasy, Werewolf Jesse McCree, Werewolf Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison, Witch Angela "Mercy" Ziegler, Witch Moira O'Deorain, Young Hanzo Shimada, Young Jesse McCree, mild body horror, or a feeble attempt at political intrigue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-06-24 12:33:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15630762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liquid_Lyrium/pseuds/Liquid_Lyrium
Summary: “That’s a fair question. You wanna give me a trial run, I suppose that’s reasonable. Oh, and you’ll need someone to mind me during the full moon, o’course.”“How much trouble will you be?” Hanzo feels something like a headache forming behind the space his brows are furrowed.“Well, I don’t recommend pitting any of your rookies up against me,” McCree grins. A sly crooked thing.===Necromancy is one of the few traditions of magic that is almost universally despised and reviled; its history is tortured and has always been fraught. After the Crisis, it is unthinkable that even an academic interest in Necromancy was once respectable. Even abilities that brush too closely against the margins can be viewed with suspicion. Or worse.McCree is a werewolf who can see the dead. Blackwatch, his old crew, was torn apart from the inside, and he's all that's left after the betrayal. With no one to watch him at the full moon, he's desperate enough to offer himself into the service of a family of dragons rumored to have a little problem with a haunting. What he finds, however, is not what he expects.Instead he finds a reckoning.





	1. Here We Come to a Turning of the Season

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the unlikeliest meeting imaginable, but McCree's made worse and stranger beds to lie in. He can't afford to be picky. Neither can Shimada. It's what McCree is banking on.

It’s a risk, meeting with the Shimada like this, but if McCree had other options, he wouldn’t have come all this way. The washitsu he’s in is old-fashioned by definition, which suits McCree just fine. He’s an old-fashioned kind of man himself. It still seems strange to think of himself as a man when three years ago he didn’t think he’d make it past his 17th birthday, but McCree officially entered his second decade of life just over a month ago. The zabuton he’s been given to sit on has all the marks of something traditional which is _not_ the same as old-fashioned, in McCree’s humble opinion. It’s got all the hallmarks of something that is used about once a year. Thin, too ornate for something that’s supposed to go under someone’s butt, impractical, and completely lacking in any kind of cushion or support.

McCree wonders if he’s supposed to be impressed at the display in the tokonoma, or offended that he wasn’t seated in front of it. The ikebana is an exquisite blend of synthetic, eternally falling hard-light sakura petals and real cherry blossoms in a modern, geometric glass or crystal vase. He’s willing to bet that they were banking on his lack of intelligence, the fact that he was a _ignorant American_ to not understand that he’s been slighted. It doesn’t bother him. Let them think he’s stupid. At least half his survival has hinged on others thinking he’s half as smart as he is. If they’re going to treat him like an ignorant American he might as well return the favor and act the part. His hat is already resting on the table, black and polished brighter than the lacquered wood underneath the leather.

McCree rests his elbows on the table and he stretches his legs out on the tatami, drumming his fingers on the polished surface. His thunder thighs don’t really fit under the table anyway. His hosts are lucky that his guest slippers don't have spurs.

Just when he’s about to ask one of the stone-faced guards seated at the edges of the room with impeccable form when he gets to see somebody, the screen door slides open. The man himself. Shimada Hanzo. Well, as much as McCree is a man. Jesse grins faintly to himself.

He rests his chin in his palm and blatantly takes in the master of the house. He wonders if it’s a glamour or if Hanzo really changes his shape. He doesn’t know much about the Shimada beyond that they’re dragons. Dragons are tricky to nail down, there’s a lot of possibilities when it comes to abilities. Nothing uniform about them, a lot of variance informed by local habitat. They can be anything from punks holding up any gas station they come across to add to their meagre hoard, or they can be centuries old and power a whole tower of magical study in places like Oasis. He supposes, reluctantly, that there’s only so much a glamour can do as far as size goes. Seems more likely that the man’s a shape-changer. Like and unlike McCree.

Hanzo seats himself with his back to the ikebana, resplendent in a set of sumptuous robes that McCree bets would buy him meals for the rest of his earthly life if he could find a buyer. His eyes get caught on the borders of one of the inner layers of shirts and robes at Hanzo’s chest covered in fine, subtle shapes like waves. The outer robe is a dark navy with intricate silver flowers set against silver threads like rolling, twisting harp strings that only glimmer whenthe light caresses it just right. It isn’t a kimono. At least McCree doesn’t think so. Not the regular kind that sees everyday or even formal use. The sleeves are enormous, for one thing, and there's that navy cord around Hanzo’s neck. He’ll have to look it up later. The dude’s got a nice face, but Jesse already knows that. He hadn’t picked the Shimada clan by chance. He does have to admit that having the hair up in a bun does a lot for Hanzo. His other look of parted down the middle is just _eh._ Though it does look like he’s grown his hair out since the pictures Jesse had seen were taken. He pictures the man’s hair down and.. yeah. Yeah it’s definitely better, now that it’s longer. The pictures hadn’t really captured how sharp his features were either. Man has a jawline like a dagger and cheeks that can cut glass. McCree gets just the faintest scent of him. All jasmine, juniper, and green tea, with wood and steel underneath.

If he’s ogling a bit, well, how can he not when Shimada’s put himself on display like a damn picture, complete with the ikebana frame behind him? The scroll is a bit off though. Prevents it from being picture perfect. The calligraphy is harsh, rather than elegant, and from what McCree had deciphered the haiku on there wasn’t great. Not that he could accurately judge poetry in any language, but… it didn’t grab him.

“Speak,” Shimada finally says, hands folded carefully in his lap, eyes boring into McCree like he’s thinking about having him flayed and roasted on principle. McCree wonders which one of them the elders are attempting to make a statement to, by not appearing at this meeting. Shimada is the head of the family officially, sure, but his dad only kicked it a year or so ago. The rest of the family, including the respected and revered elders certainly have a vested interest in any negotiations. Or does Hanzo have enough clout already that he can simply shut them out?

“Thanks fer seeing me,” McCree reaches up to tip his hat before he remembers it isn’t here. He tugs a section of his bangs instead.

“I have no interest in pleasantries, I am a busy man,” Hanzo folds his arms carefully, resting his hands perfectly in the crease of each elbow. Masterfully showing off his sleeves. McCree barely resists the urge to roll his eyes at Shimada’s preening.

“Alright, I like that. I’m here for a job. Offer my services, I guess.”

“What makes you think we need outside help such as you?” Hanzo’s lip curls in a sneer. “I was told you were something special. The much-vaunted Blackwatch. All I see is a common wolf.”

McCree can’t quite meet Hanzo’s eye at the mention of his old crew. Guilt, shame, and grief threaten to claw up his throat like bile. His heart aches against his chest, like his ribs are a prison. “I’m all that’s left. You can still call me Blackwatch if you want. Name’s McCree when I’m not on the job. Jesse McCree.” He’d dropped the name in the hopes it would get him this audience. He lifts his chin and locks his eyes with Shimada’s again, “Don’t be deceived by my good looks and charm, though. Ain’t no one like me darlin’.”

Hanzo’s lips press together tightly into a thin white line at the endearment. Jesse grins. _Too easy_. “Explain,” the word falls tersely from Hanzo’s mouth a moment later.

There’s only a half-breath of hesitation before Jesse bares his soul and exposes his neck to the fangs of the already riled dragon before him, “I can see the dead.”

There’s a sudden charge in the air. McCree can feel it like a storm, the hairs on his arm standing on end. He doesn’t miss the way that the bodyguards clench their fists and tense their muscles, nor the way that Hanzo’s cheek just barely twitches. How every heart in the room is pounding like a drum in his head.

“Are you a necromancer? Some foul magician who dabbles in tormenting the deceased?” Shimada finally demands an answer after the silence stretches thinner than the paper screens walling them in.

“No,” Jesse can’t help a half-chuckle, as ill-advised as it is. He feels overwhelming relief that Shimada didn't ask how he obtained such a gift. The truth might be worse than if he’s the grave-robber Shimada thinks he is. The kind of sorcerer he ran with in Deadlock when he didn’t have a future or a choice or a pack. He was just lucky Gabe found him and pulled him out of that life. Even now… he still thinks that. He _has_ to believe it. “I think it’s fairer to say that the dead torment _me._ ”

“What makes you think we have need of such services?” Hanzo’s question follows so quickly the words barely have time to leave Jesse’s mouth. So defensive. Like something might be wrong.

“Rumor has it, ya’ll have a bit of a blind spot when it comes to the dead, and you got some… _problems_ in that sphere. I can help you with that.”

Shimada’s eyes narrow oh-so-slightly and sweep around the chamber. As if the loose-lipped traitor is in this very room. Then again, given how Shimada’s bodyguards seem to tremble and stiffen to attention with quickening hearts, maybe Shimada isn’t wrong. McCree pities the poor soul who gets caught as the leak.

“And where did you hear such unsubstantiated rumors?”

“Oh we gonna play this game? Next you’ll be telling me how big my ears are. I hear things, pumpkin. Like how yer heart’s beating just a touch faster ‘cuz I think we both know I’m right.” Jesse can’t help his grin. Circumstances rarely matter, he always likes making a heart attached to a pretty face like Shimada’s beat faster.

“Your other abilities?” Hanzo tightens one finger on his sleeve, the draping fabric bunching under the disturbance. A long ripple through heavy silk.

“I ain’t gonna be able to see through a glamor or a face-stealer or illusions and such, but once I get the scent of something I can track it down just fine. I ain’t much for magic, unfortunately, but the other me can handle spirits and the like just fine. Good with a gun too.”

Hanzo’s jaw shifts from side to side. Considering.

McCree gestures to one side with his hand, mostly to show off his Deadlock tat to annoy his host, “Look. I think you can handle me. I can be discreet. Even if I’m all that’s left, I’m still Blackwatch. Should be worth more than most men, most wolves, even without my Deadeye. Been around. Seen a thing or two. Experience is a bitch of a teacher. When can you _not_ use a man of my skills?” McCree can see the wheels turning in that pretty head so he flashes a smile. It’s a calculated risk, but he hopes that even a sliver of the combined charm Jack and Gabe taught him over the years oozes through. He has a distinct advantage, however. Even though Shimada met him without the rest of the family brass, they aren’t meeting _alone._

Hanzo can’t afford to ignore the problem they so clearly have, and McCree aims to be his only salvation.

\----

Hanzo studies McCree for a moment. The man is obnoxious. Typically American right down to the cowboy hat offensively resting at the center of the table. Draping himself over the furniture as if everything within this room was not explicitly Hanzo’s property. Showing little regard for any of their customs.

He hates that he has fallen into some sort of hellish web. Like a fool. The elders and the other ranking members of the branch families have complained about the numerous problems on their properties, and if Hanzo turns this man away…His eyes flick towards the guards. Impressively mute and stone faced now, but word travels fast, evidently. He does not give himself the luxury of sighing aloud, but he does hate being boxed in like this. He also has to give this man, McCree, begrudging respect. He is not often bested like this in negotiations, though he rarely goes in with such off-base expectations or information.

He will take care not to underestimate McCree again.

They might as well get the bargaining over with. “Terms?”

It's even more annoying that he can't stop noticing how _handsome_ McCree is. It's unsettling. A small part of him is jealous at how easily he smiles, how good the twisted smirk looks as it rests on his face. It’s far too confident and inviting.

McCree lets out the softest, single chuckle, “Four-hundred grand a year. American.” Hanzo can’t tear his eyes from the way McCree’s tongue edges along his teeth. It is… distracting in the worst possible way. It’s also the only real visible sign that McCree is something other than a mundane human. His teeth are just a bit too big and too sharp.

“Do not insult me.”

McCree shrugs and cops to his crassness, “Was worth a shot, though. Yer loaded. Fine, three times what you pay one of yer fancy bodyguards over there.”

“They are family. You will be lucky to make half as much.”

“Alright two times.”

“Where is the proof of your skills?” It is a question Hanzo should have asked sooner. Despite the nearly universal disgust the world holds for necromancy and its related abilities—the margins of which have been hotly debated within and between different cultures for millennia before the Crisis muddied the waters—there’s nothing to substantiate McCree’s claims, other than his willingness to risk admitting to such a talent.

“That’s a fair question. You wanna give me a trial run, I suppose that’s reasonable. Oh, and you’ll need someone to mind me during the full moon, o’course.”

“How much trouble will you be?” Hanzo feels something like a headache forming behind the space his brows are furrowed.

“Well, I don’t recommend pitting any of your rookies up against me,” McCree grins. A sly crooked thing. The twist of his lips fills Hanzo with all sorts of desires that he cannot possibly indulge in, for too many reasons, and he wishes he didn’t feel this way at all. McCree presses the pink flesh of his tongue against an ivory canine. It speaks to a primal hunger he knows they both share.

Hanzo sweeps his eyes over McCree. Every inch of him is battle-forged, even in this lesser form. He wonders what McCree looks like as the other. The wolf.

Hanzo resigns himself to watching McCree—at least for the first full moon. He will gauge the wolf’s strength for himself and assign someone of appropriate mettle to contain him after that. “Very well. There is a presence making a nuisance of itself in one of our compounds, in Tokushima.” Hanzo wonders if the American even knows where that is compared to Tokyo. “Take care of it and I will believe you, and you will be put on retainer. For now you are a guest. With a very thin welcome. Do not wear it any further.”

The man barks out a laugh, smacking his thigh, “Aw, I’m just a lovable scoundrel, honeybee. You’ll get used to me.” McCree extends his hand with the gaudy, tasteless tattoo. Hanzo pointedly gets to his feet and leaves the room, rather than cross the distance to shake hands with the man. It’s distressing that part of him wishes he had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please send help why does this idea have two B plots??? (also I went over this pretty thoroughly but it is unbeta'd so do let me know if there's any glaring issues I missed)  
> Anyways Hanzo is absolutely dressed like a damiyo in some sort of [hitatare](http://maihanami.blogspot.com/2013/11/wafuku-question-kamishimo.html) (only with fancier/more modern fabrics than were traditional for historical periods bc lbr the Shimada family is that extra) An example can also be seen [here (listed as naga-hitatare)](http://www.iz2.or.jp/english/fukusyoku/kosode/index.htm) with a bunch of other neat period clothing.
> 
> This is day 2 of the Target Practice discord server anniversary prompts which was "Young MhHanzo AU" which is not my usual jam for creating stuff for these two, but now that there's magic, monsters, and political intrigue it is sufficiently convoluted enough I find myself invested to the tune of a multi-chapter AU fic ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ (Which might also be fun for me to work on when I'm busy doing groundwork/research for Crooked Mile stuff XD)
> 
> I have been sitting on this title until inspiration for a Were!Cree story struck me so here we are. Title comes from the most enjoyable song by [Jason Webley](https://jasonwebley.bandcamp.com) the appropriately werewolf-themed ["I Made a Promise to the Moon"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vk6W80zsFSs) which is an audience participation song and very enjoyable live.  
> Chapter title is from ["Don't Carry It All" by The Decemberists](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eDO4bzFWewk)  
> 


	2. Hold my hand, I can hear ghosts calling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McCree settles in, happy to keep his secrets close to his chest. It's alright. Hanzo's keeping secrets too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some very mild body horror here as we go into more detail about what the deal is with McCree's eye. I don't think it's too bad but mileage varies. It may be more intense in later chapters, and warnings will be listed at the start of any relevant chapters.

McCree takes care of the little gremlin in Tokushima the next day. Of course it’s not really a gremlin, but McCree’s education in the arcane and supernatural has always taken place on the streets and in the wilds. He calls things what he pleases, and nothing that was hostile has ever survived to complain about the mislabeling. _(Folk_ are different, of course. Easy enough to call someone a faun instead of a satyr, sir instead of ma’am, or by a name their parents didn’t give ‘em.) It only takes him an afternoon. An hour on the hypertrain and he's taken across Japan, to Shikoku Island. The smallest of the four main islands that comprise the nation. This among dozens of other rudimentary facts about the country glows happily up at him from his screen reader. He'd downloaded several travel guides before coming here. One of them vainly attempts to bring up local points of interest which flash by too quickly to land on anything in particular, even as the train slows down to pull into the station.

His escorts (if they think they can fuck with McCree by putting him in the care of twins, then the Shimada aren’t factoring in his nose into the equation) in matching suits and navy ties take him through the winding city streets until they reach another impressive walled compound, though much smaller than the one in Hanamura. McCree isn’t sure if any of the buildings here qualify as a castle or not as his frame of reference for what a castle is does _not_ include ancient Japanese strongholds held by a long lineage of dragons. He’s also willing to bet his screen reader would come up empty on this place. The colors are more subdued than that of Hanamura. Here the high walls of the compound are white and cool grey, the tiles of the rooftops are a quiet, deep blue, and the wooden gates and decorative beams tend towards more natural stains of medium to dark brown, rather than red. Maybe some of the beams framing the screen doors and windows are structural. Jesse has no earthly way of knowing, and it isn’t like he’s about to test them on purpose when he’s not even signed on with the Shimada yet. Just like in Tokyo, the scent of cherry blossoms wafts over everything. The peak sakura viewing season is already here in Tokushima, possibly behind them, as McCree sees more than a few pink and white petals falling to the ground. He imagines that it won’t be much longer before Tokyo and Hanamura follow suit, settling into full bloom before the cherry blossoms are gone for another year.

There are priests waiting to receive them that greet him with a politely masked mixture of suspicion and disgust. He doesn't blame them for thinking he's a secret necromancer. It always amazes McCree how many mundies make up the cloth and how effective they are. Then again, without powers or magic at their disposal, they’ve had to be creative over the centuries. Throw enough spaghetti at the wall, something's gotta stick eventually. Gabe certainly proved how clever and resourceful he was time and time again.

The ghost is sleeping or hibernating at the bottom of the well when McCree finds it. An ancient structure mostly maintained for show and to collect rainwater. One of the few places to hide during the day. They wake it, and McCree doesn't even have to bring out the wolf. Between the sun and the Shinto rites, the spirit is sent to the great beyond.

It only occurs to McCree halfway through the train ride back, to wonder why there haven’t been any priests summoned to the main compound. Or any of the others. Sure, maybe the folks in Tokushima can’t trek halfway across the country, but it ain’t like there’s a shortage of priests up by or even _in_ Tokyo. It sets the hairs on the back of his neck on end. There's no way the Shimada clan isn't capable of taking care of shit, or finding someone who can if the local shrines aren’t enough to take care of whatever the hell is going on. So why'd they leave it long enough for someone like McCree to hear rumors of?

McCree doesn’t have an answer, but he can’t turn back any more than he can jump off the train. Even as the wolf, he’d have a problem doing that. A heavy weight settles in his gut, and he’ll just have to make sure he keeps his eyes and ears open. Like always. The Japanese countryside disappears in a blur as the hypertrain carries him across the prefectures back to Tokyo and Hanamura. Decades ago this trip would have been ten hours or more, depending on any missed connections. Now it's nothing at all to go from Wakkanai up in Hokkaido all the way down to Ibusuki in Kaogshima in four to six hours. If you have the money to drop on hypertrain tickets anyway. Not bad for a transport that doesn’t make use of a jet engine or leave the ground. Aside from the levitation that the magnets afford, anyway.

He considers giving his escorts the slip as the smell of the bonsai ramen from Rikimaru tickles his nose alongside the cloying scent of cherry blossoms long before the walls of the compound are in view. What’s the point, though? He’ll just be back at square one. With no one to watch his back. He’s tired of that. If the Shimada are just going to stab him in the back, at least McCree has a shot at seeing it coming this time.

Hanzo doesn’t seem pleased that McCree’s passed his little test. He meets McCree on the grounds, a crown of pale white cherry blossoms towering in the tree behind him. Shimada’s in a regular casual gray and navy kimono today. Maybe a yukata? Looks fancier than cotton, though, whatever fabric it’s made out of. Some casual, modern kimono that McCree would have pegged for the top of some fashion line if it not for the white Shimada kamon framing Hanzo’s sternum. He’s standing on one of the elevated walkways, two shallow steps between them so that McCree doesn’t have the height advantage on him. Jesse idly wonders if Hanzo practices posing dramatically like this, making his brutish muscle check the angles and the lighting for him, and he bites the inside of his lip to keep himself from laughing.

“So, you tell the truth.” There’s a quiet, wet sound like a kiss that McCree interprets as Shimada breaking the seal between teeth and tongue within his mouth. Most folk wouldn’t have heard it, but most folk aren’t McCree.

“That I do,” McCree extends a hand.

“Very well,” Hanzo sounds resigned. “You will be given a room. And compensation. One and a half times what one of our body guards make, I believe you said?” Hanzo reluctantly reaches out to grab McCree by the elbow

“Two times,” McCree slides his arm back and squeezes Hanzo's wrist. Hanzo grunts once which McCree takes to be agreement. Jesse runs his thumb over Shimada’s wrist bone, just to be overly familiar, since he's being a brat and trying to welch on their previous deal. Hanzo jerks his arm back, like he's touched a live wire, his other hand grasping his wrist as though burned. It's only McCree's keen hearing that allows him to catch the gasp that's almost immediately eclipsed by a pounding heartbeat. It's that little gasp that casts Hanzo's flushed cheeks and lightning-hot glare into an entirely different light. Catches McCree just as off-guard. _Well shit._

He only meant to mess with Shimada a little, but McCree just found out a lot more than he bargained for. Like that Hanzo clearly doesn't get touched very often, despite living with his flesh and blood family. That Hanzo apparently has something of an appreciation for rugged American cowboys, despite his airs and superior attitude.

That Jesse has just created a complication for himself by having something deeper than a merely visual appreciation for Hanzo, despite the status of their business arrangement being no older than that handshake.

Hanzo squeezes his wrist and there’s a sizzling sound in the air like a firecracker—the kind that sound like oil scattering on a hot plate—as a thin net of blue electricity flickers from the vice grip on his wrist down to his elbow. Surrounding his forearm like a faint, flickering cage. Jesse can smell the way it burns the air. Shimada seems to remember himself and he quickly unlatches his hand and returns his arms to his sides.

When Hanzo speaks Jesse pictures blue lightning crackling along the ground, scorching the earth and anything that grows. Like a great waterfall of plasma. “You would do well to remember what and who I am.”

“Don't think there's any chance of me forgetting that, darling.” McCree shouldn't sound so dreamy. It was meant to come out affirming and affirmative. Not… like _that._ McCree says a silent prayer to any of the Powers That Be to help him get his head back on straight (not likely), but it’s hard when he can still hear Shimada’s heart pounding like a drum. When he can smell the jasmine on Hanzo’s breath cutting through the oppressive odor of future cherries like an intoxicating breeze. He shifts back a half-step, suddenly realizing he'd leaned in closer.

Hanzo crosses his arms, glaring at McCree, and the smell of ozone spikes the air for just a moment. “You will address me with proper respect and authority, _Blackwatch McCree._ ” It’s like Hanzo’s given him another last name. So there isn’t a hint of a chance the word _Jesse_ will ever pass his lips. It stings, just a little.

Still, McCree’s always had trouble with authority, and answering only to himself for several months has not improved his position in any way. “Oh yeah? Should I call you _sir?_ ” Calling Hanzo _sir_ is ludicrous given how close they are in age, and he makes sure the man knows it from his tone. From his smirk—which probably drives Shimada crazy. If his heart is anything to go by. Part of him cynically wonders if anybody below him in the pecking order has ever jerked his chain like this. The caution stamped into him by his stint with Deadlock tells him not to test that question.

 _Too_ much.

Shimada dips his head so that his chin is nearly flush against his neck, a rage in his eyes that McCree cannot definitively say is murder since the smell of ozone seems to be receding. Hanzo’s cheeks hollow for a split second as he seethes at McCree’s attitude, which puts all _sorts_ of improbable, filthy images in his head, before the much more _real_ possibility of dragon breath comes to the fore. Twenty feels both early and late to be having revelations about the way standing in front of an angry, tightly-wound dragon makes him feel. “Shimada-san will be sufficient. Shimada-dono, within these walls, if you are so inclined. _Never_ without.”

“Shimada-dono. You’re serious?” The blank look weighed with centuries of tradition tells McCree everything he needs to know. Well, he’s an old-fashioned kind of guy. Why not? “Alright. Looking forward to working with you.” He shrugs easily and Hanzo gives him a curt nod. Shimada’s robes billow behind him as he storms away having gotten the metaphorical last word, if not the literal. _He’s gotta be using magic. Picture perfect exit like that?_ It has to be.

McCree is given a room within the compound. Not within the castle itself. A smaller side-building. Another old-fashioned washitsu. Little changed in several hundred years, no doubt. If they’re trying to snub him, they’re woefully under-equipped to do so. McCree feels like he’s checked into a fancy ryokan. Definitely a step up from the place he was at before which barely ranked above a capsule hotel. He kicks off his boots, but leaves the guest slippers untouched. He can already tell they’re too small, no point in trying to cram his feet in there. McCree does find, with regret, after sliding a few doors around that while a sink has been provided, there’s no shower or toilet. He suspects those are elsewhere in the building, around the corner. Alright. Maybe they’re snubbing him a little.

He’s also surprised to see that the tatami in this room are a pale green and his nose picks up the scent of the grass rush that layers the top of the mat. Maybe they thought the smell would bother him? It’s a pleasant reprieve from all the sakura on the air. For now. At least the cushions he’s supposed to sit on in here look comfortable and functional. His shit from his hotel room is already there. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out how it arrived. McCree has no illusions about what the Shimada-gumi are, but they have a code. Things they won’t do. Lines that won’t be crossed for the sake of whatever consists of a criminal’s honor. Honor just as dubious as his. It has to be enough for now, and if he can get in good… not just be a retainer, but something like family, like pack, they might decide that his enemies are their enemies too. There has to be something mutually beneficial to taking out Moira O’Deorain for him and the Shimada. Jesse just doesn’t know what it is yet.

McCree meets his own eyes in the mirror above the sink. He flinches, instinctively, and takes a half-step back. Every hair along his spine stands on end and he feels himself go cold. He’s been avoiding his own eyes since the winter solstice. Slowly, McCree lifts his eyes to hold his own gaze in his reflection. He leans in close to the mirror, breath fogging the surface, nose nearly touching.

His right eye, the mirror’s left, is darker than the other. A different shade of brown. The other one catches the light right and there’s a hint of all the whiskey he’s ever drunk in there and just the faintest bit of hazel around the pupil. McCree doesn’t blink as he studies the left side of the mirror. When light catches that eye, dark red tones creak through like lovingly stained woodwork, and the darker band of pigmentation around the borders of that iris become more prominent. McCree pulls at his lower lid, exposing the eye further. It looks normal. Tiny red veins against white. Nothing about it seems off. It gets wet, produces tears, and pain.

There's nothing to suggest that it's the eye of a dead man.

He grips the edge of the sink with trembling hands, stomach curling and threatening to heave into the sink as he remembers the moment it was thrust upon him. Into him.

He hasn’t seen Reyes since, but McCree has to believe that his boss did this for a reason. That it was an act of defiance, and not the work of a witch. He has to.

McCree swallows thickly, and tears his gaze away from the mirror. He fishes a bottle of water out of a mini-fridge in the corner of his spartan, clean chambers. Even if trouble shows up on their doorstep before then, they’ll have to protect their own scaley hides. Maybe he beats a quick retreat after that, if they haven't taken a shine to him by then.

McCree’s hand shakes a bit and cool water slips down his hand. He prays to anything benevolent or even neutral out there that it won’t come to that before he’s made himself indispensable.

\----

Hanzo has finally put all thoughts of McCree out of his head, just as the man comes into his field of vision. The sky overhead is getting darker as the sun dips towards the horizon, but McCree is still clearly visible standing in front of one of their bamboo fountains, fingers held under the trickle of water. Hanzo stops just outside the dojo, ignoring Daisuke’s query if he injured himself while training. The omnic fusses like a mother hen, a trait it did not have before the Crisis. At least that is what Hanzo has been told. They have picked up omnics who had never been in their service before, but Daisuke is the only omnic who had served before the Crisis that was welcomed back in any way. It was a controversial decision by his father, but one that has withstood his death. Hanzo almost pities the oni-like chasis they put the other in. As much a ploy to intimidate outsiders as a cruel joke at Daisuke’s expense.

Daisuke told him once that he enjoys the horns. They make him feel more like a dragon. Hanzo has never asked Daisuke if he understands why he was given that shape.

“I’m fine,” he finally says, to spare himself as much as Daisuke. He had trained hard, yes, but there is nothing _physically_ wrong with him in this moment. He can’t seem to pull his eyes from McCree, standing in the courtyard, admiring the cherry trees and the other carefully maintained landscaping. “Please go make sure I have taken proper care of my bow. I… was re-stringing it. I think I may have left my supplies out.” It is the feeblest lie he has ever conceived of, and part of Hanzo is deeply ashamed he could not think of something more clever. Daisuke is still an omnic, however, and unfailingly loyal and literal. He leaves with a bow and exits the periphery of Hanzo’s vision.

McCree hasn’t stopped what he’s doing, aimlessly staring at the trees with his hands shoved into his back pockets, but Hanzo is willing to bet the wolf has already smelled him out.

For some reason, it hadn’t occurred to Hanzo that the man might wander about. His heart races and threatens to claw its way up his throat. _Silence. He can hear you._ His traitorous heart does not listen, and beats faster instead. Still, it is not as if Hanzo had _forbade_ McCree from going anywhere. The man lives here now, there is only so much he can prohibit. He will apparently need to get used to the possibility of running into McCree, which is hardly his greatest concern at the moment considering the other places this courtyard is connected to.

He steels himself and starts down the steps. A guilty curl of pleasure winds around his stomach as McCree half-turns towards him. Like he has been waiting for Hanzo. Hanzo puts on a scowl to match the grin levied in his direction.

“Evening, Shimada-dono.”

He can hear the mockery in McCree’s voice. It was a mistake to tell him so much, to let the wolf get under his skin earlier. He lifts his chin a touch higher as he continues his trek, as though he is not intentionally intercepting McCree.

“Good evening, Blackwatch McCree. Dinner is served every night at seven o’clock sharp, if that is what you are searching for.”

“It wasn’t, but sounds good to me. Will I see you there, or do you not eat with the common folk like us?”

Hanzo lets out a slow breath through his nose, coming to stand beside McCree. The man seems to burn like a furnace against the cool spring air. It’s irritating that he’s shorter than the American, though hardly unexpected. “You may, in fact, but I may also have business that takes me elsewhere.”

“Hm. And tonight?” McCree’s deep rumble fills Hanzo’s skin with warmth, like there are hot stones piled deep within his belly.

To his horror, the barest grin lifts the corner of his mouth, “Hn. Why don’t you come to dinner and find out?” The words tumble out of his mouth without permission. He had not intended to say that at all.

“Hm,” McCree stretches lazily, and it’s _alarming_ at how badly Hanzo wants to take advantage of his outstretched arms and tuck himself under one and leech the warmth he can taste on the air. It’s also unfair how a single sound can make every cell in his body stand to attention. “I dunno, I was thinking of making my own arrangements for dinner tonight.”

Hanzo rolls his eyes, “If you are not there when the meal starts we _will_ assume you have made other plans, and you will not be able to join. Tardiness is not acceptable, Blackwatch McCree.” He knows McCree didn’t mean it seriously, but he can hardly let a guest in his own home go hungry. Well, not without fair warning.

“Call me anything you like, Shimada-dono, just don’t call me late for dinner.” The absurd level of formal address from a _foreigner_ is already irritating him, especially since he knows McCree doesn’t mean it. He falls into step beside McCree, walking the perimeter of the courtyard slowly.

“I should have guessed you to be the type to show up to meals on time,” he sighs heavily. Wolves are notoriously voracious, but it’s not like it will make a difference in a house full of dragons.

“Guilty as charged, I’m afraid—hm?” McCree pauses, and Hanzo’s heart ceases to beat as he sees the man double-take over his left shoulder.

“What is it?” Hanzo tries to keep his voice level. He thinks he succeeds.

“Thought I saw something, hang on…”

His heart threatens to grow wings and burst from his mouth as he sees McCree shift towards the pathway that leads to the temple.

“ _Wait!_ ” His hand latches onto McCree’s wrist. It feels like his palm is burning, the man is so warm. Hanzo swallows and tightens his grip, enough that McCree has to turn and face him. He is willing to burn for this.

“What in-? Ain’t this what I’m here for?”

Hanzo wets his lips before speaking. “That path leads to the archery range. I am sure it is just Daisuke. I sent him to check on my gear.” His heart is pounding faster in his chest, but it is a smooth lie, at least. Even if it _is_ his second worst lie in his life, to date.

McCree twists his brows, but Hanzo catches the way Jesse’s eyes fall to where Hanzo’s hand is still on his wrist. He can feel his entire face pounding with his own pulse now. Panic and attraction are both muddling his senses in the most unhelpful way.

McCree starts to turn his head back over his shoulder again, and Hanzo makes a decision.

He runs his thumb along Jesse’s wrist, and he fights a shiver as the man’s attention snaps back to him. Hanzo risks the smallest, shakiest of smiles at the other man.

“McCree… I wanted to apologize for my behavior. I have not been a welcoming host. While I must appear reserved in front of others, it is… nice to have someone my own age around. I hope we may become friends, in time.” It is not as much of a lie as Hanzo means it to be. McCree’s brows knit in confusion, and Hanzo dips his head, peeking up at McCree through his lashes. He has _some_ amount of charm. When he chooses to use it. Which is not often. “I do not know if you can possibly understand the kind of pressure I face, I do not know you,” he runs his thumb along McCree’s wrist again, and lets the _yet_ remain unspoken. He feels slightly drunk on power as the suspicion in the wolf’s face eases away and he becomes more pliant. Something like _interest_ rests in his features instead. Intense. Magnetic. “I apologize if I misplaced any of my frustrations related to that pressure on you. Please… allow me to give you a tour of your new home. I could give you a history of the grounds and castle.” When Hanzo swallows he tells himself it is to increase the illusion that he’s an utter wreck around the other man. He tries not to think about how his pulse is climbing while he waits for McCree’s answer, and what the wolf might divine from his racing heart.

“Yeah. Yeah, all right.”

Hanzo feels his face break into a smile, and for a moment he feels a genuine surge of joy. Like warm hands are cradling his heart and lifting it within his chest. An unfamiliar sensation for over a year, and before he can school his enthusiasm into something dignified he’s telling McCree how old the oldest cherry trees are on their property, who planted them, and pulling him up the stairs so that they can view the rest of the district from on top of the walls. He tells McCree everything about them, how many steps are on the staircase, when he first climbed the outer walls of the compound when he was ten, when they were built, then burned down, then built again. He finally stumbles and draws in a breath, coming back to himself with a quiet horror at how he has more or less attempted to regurgitate an entire childhood’s worth of history lessons in the space of ten minutes. He starts an apology,  but McCree’s smile stops him. For a moment Hanzo thinks it is indulgent but that is incorrect. It is fond. Neither smug nor inviting, and it twists Hanzo’s stomach fiercely to see it. He clears his throat softly and starts again, from the beginning, and he looks over the village as he rests his hands against the wall.

He almost forgets that he doesn’t want McCree to see the ghosts that live within them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from The Fray's "Hold My Hand" which is kind of disturbingly on the nose for all this XD
> 
> This is not when I was expecting any of these story beats to happen so we'll see if I regret this more loosely plotted style of storytelling later on :p
> 
> Do also let me know if I miss any important tags, especially if they are triggers!


	3. Oh, you fill my head with pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mistakes were made. Hanzo can admit this much. Jesse's just starting to realize the enormity of his.

There are nine days to the full moon when the sun rises over Hanamura. McCree is tempted to sleep in, but he gets up and bathes as soon as he realizes he’s awake. Just in case he’s called on again. Once he’s clean and dry, the cool spring morning air is a little more bearable. McCree settles into his boots and exits his room. It’s taken a few days, but McCree finally doesn’t feel like an intruder, skulking around the grounds. He doesn’t know that he’d go so far to say that he’s _welcome_ in the traditional sense, but he’s not some princess in a fairy tale that’s been confined to her room either. He can go into the village proper, or Tokyo itself, if he wants and come back. He’s taken to pacing the grounds a few times a day, keeping his eyes open for the kinds of things only he can see. None of the guards have hassled him about it, so it seems like it’s alright, though he’s definitely run into Hanzo more than a few times already.

Hanzo.

Jesse isn’t sure what to make of Hanzo, or his hot and cold routine. He’s pretty sure there’s raw attraction there, but maybe that isn’t enough for Hanzo. Hell, he’s not sure that’s enough for _him._ He’s just not sure if Hanzo _feels_ something. McCree hasn’t had a lot of experience with… feelings before. Sure he’s a bit of a flirt, Jack and Gabe had taught him a little bit about being charming. Gérard’s the one who had taught him the importance of tactically applying it, though, leaving him suspicious of the advances of other people.

But thinking of Gérard only leads to thoughts of Amélie, and McCree has to stop and brace his hand against a cherry tree to banish the grief and nausea. His nose is full of the aroma of wet iron-filings and gunsmoke, and he can feel a thick, wet film covering him; warm and sticky, soaked into his clothes, on his neck and hands. The taste of copper in his mouth. Funny how a single memory could make a freshly bathed man no longer feel clean.

McCree scrapes his palms against the bark before drawing a hand over his face, bracing his shoulder against the tree. Anything to banish the memory. McCree draws in shaky breaths, but eventually the overpowering smell of the cherry blossoms fills his nose again, and he finds himself grateful for the scent in a way he hasn’t been for days. He closes his eyes and inhales deeply, trying to remember how old this particular tree is. Hanzo told him, but he can’t remember.

After a few more minutes of fruitlessly trying to remember the age of the tree, McCree pushes his weight off the trunk. Jesse swallows and moves forward on unsteady legs, leaving the past firmly behind him. He’ll have to ask Hanzo to tell him again, if he sees him. Jesse’s surprised to realize he _hopes_ he’ll run into Hanzo—landing him back at square one, and not knowing what to do with the feeling.

He’s spared his thoughts on the matter as he catches a movement. Jesse’s still learning how this shit works, but so far he’s seen a lot of different kinds of ghosts and dead things. This one is like a shade of grey that doesn’t exist, or a disturbance in the air like a mirage in the desert. A human-shaped figure that slips into the walls and beyond McCree’s sight. McCree gauges the main building from the outside, and thinks it might be in the room he and Hanzo did their initial negotiations in. He slides one of the doors open and steps into a relatively unremarkable entryway. It’s a bit claustrophobic, since this part of the castle was built during a time people were historically shorter, and definitely did not grow over six feet in height on the regular. The hallways are at least wider than usual. He isn’t sure if it is meant to accommodate one or two dragons. He has yet to see a Shimada outside their human shape.

McCree hesitates, then slips his boots off, leaving them tucked neatly by the door. He reminds himself for a third time to pick up a couple sets of house slippers that actually fit him the next time he goes into town. For now he has to hope he doesn’t get caught in stocking feet as he rounds the corner, scanning the corridor for any signs of the shade he saw earlier. He slides open the shoji. There’s a moment where the door catches on its track, and McCree is deathly afraid he’s broken it before it rights itself and slides open. He pads into the room, but the ghost is nowhere to be seen.

The table has been cleared from the room, as have the cushions. The ikebana, however, is still on display, as is the scroll hanging behind it. Perhaps there are plans to entertain more guests soon? McCree closes his eyes and inhales deeply through his nose. He doubts that the ghost has left a trail for him, but it can’t hurt to try.

He gets a noseful of sakura, and the faint smell like an incandescent lightbulb from the hard light petals. He smells the faded tatami under his feet, old wood and bamboo, and… _Hanzo._ McCree sucks in soft gasp as that smell of jasmine that rises above everything else that makes up Hanzo’s scent fills his nose, his skin peppered with goosebumps.

“You should be wearing house slippers.”

McCree still feels his heart race, still jumps as he turns around, despite the fact that he _knew_ Shimada was there. He’s a little irritated that he hadn’t heard him coming. At all. Hanzo’s got his hair piled up again in a messy bun that draws all of McCree’s attention to his neck where the short, flyaway wisps tickle his skin. It’s somehow more mesmerizing than the fact that the soft, cornflower blue gi he’s wearing is half-off and he’s got half his chest and an _amazing_ tattoo on display that makes McCree feel ashamed to have his shitty Deadlock ink in the same room with it. He slides a glance downwards, past the off-white, gray hakama and he smiles faintly at the floral slippers covering Hanzo’s feet. Bright, sunny, and gaudy in the same way a paisley print is.

McCree rubs the elbow of his left arm guiltily. “Heh, yeah, sorry… I made ‘em work for our little meet ‘n greet but uh.. Big feet, you know?” He gestures helplessly down at his white socks. At least they don’t have any holes in them. “I’ll try to remember to pick some up that actually fit, next time I head out on the town.” He blinks a couple times and swallows, taking in Hanzo’s appearance, trying not to linger too long at the chest. “Uh… you headed to the dojo?”

“I just finished there, actually,” he tucks a bit of hair behind his ear, which promptly slides free. Jesse still can’t take his eyes off the man’s neck. “What are you doing here? I saw you… you looked strange.”

McCree half turns from Hanzo, looking around the near-empty room again. “Ah, just thought I saw something. Might have been nothing. Might be gone for now. Just trying to earn my keep.”

“I see.” Hanzo crosses his arms, and scans the room, a frown creasing his brow.

“Like I said, seems to be gone, but I’ll keep a lookout,” McCree offers Hanzo a half-smile to reassure him.

“Thank you,” Shimada says the words stiffly, with nothing like gratitude. The washitsu, McCree reflects, did not feel this small before. Suddenly the room is too small for the stifling weight of the silence that fills it. Hanzo seems to be rooted to the spot, a storm brewing somewhere in his chest (his heartbeat pounding like thunder), and McCree can’t seem to bring himself to be the one to leave.

Minutes pass like agony and McCree finally turns to the tokonoma and gestures towards it, “So tell me, that haiku as bad as I think it is, or am I just a tasteless Philistine?” He holds his breath as Hanzo crosses the space between them, until they’re standing shoulder to shoulder.

“It is dreadful,” Hanzo admits with a grimace, after a less weighty, much briefer silence. His eyes get distant, and his voice shrinks into a softness a man like him shouldn’t have, “But we put it up to honor my brother.”

“My condolences.” You didn't put up substandard poetry in a house like this to honor the living. Jesse chews on his lip, wondering if he’s daring too much, “The Crisis?” It’s how he ended up with Deadlock, and there are plenty of widows, orphans, and survivors out there with missing pieces of their hearts that had been burned or buried during that decade. Besides which, none of his initial research indicated that Hanzo was anything but an only child. That fact in and of itself is surprising—and alarming.

“It is in the past,” Hanzo’s voice is so tight it threatens to break, and McCree feels something pull at his heart. Without thinking, he reaches out to place his hand on Hanzo’s arm, just above his wrist. Shimada jerks his hand away, but there’s no lightning this time, at least. There’s a flicker at the edge of his vision, but when McCree turns his head, he doesn’t see anything. _My imagination or was it the ghost again?_ He shakes his head and turns his focus back on the living, on Shimada.

“I’m sorry—” but Hanzo is speaking over him.

“I apologize.” They both stop, and stare at one another. McCree is tempted to speak as they shift in place, waiting for the other to pick up the dropped thread of conversation. The corner of his mouth lifts faintly as Shimada finally goes first, “It was not… My reaction was not… personal. It was simply unexpected.”

“I gotcha. Was my bad… making assumptions,” McCree rubs the back of his neck. “Did you need…?” _What?_ Jesse isn’t sure what he’s trying to offer Hanzo, exactly, but he surely wants to give it.

Hanzo seems to consider the question anyway, running his index finger along his thumbnail. “It… It does not bother me if you wish to… do what you were attempting to do,” if the pronouncement didn’t break McCree’s heart into a thousand tiny pieces, he’d find it funny. But there’s nothing amusing about the way Hanzo turns back to face the tokonoma and forces his hand hang at his side, unable or unwilling to ask for comfort.

Jesse reaches out slowly this time, his pinky brushing along the back of Hano’s wrist before his other fingers follow. Hanzo stares resolutely ahead at the ikebana and Jesse deliberately ignores the flicker at the corner of his vision, eyes fixed on Shimada’s face. If it really is a ghost, it has all the time in the world to wait. He sees the tension in Hanzo’s neck and shoulders as he holds the man by the wrist, but after a few moments he sees the tension unthread. McCree brushes his thumb along Hanzo’s wrist bone again, before giving his arm a soft squeeze.

One of those tiny pieces of his heart wants to know what it’s like to hold Hanzo’s hand, but the other nine hundred and ninety nine tell him that’s too much for whatever… _this_ is. Jesse swallows thickly, and faces Hanzo, studies his profile which is too young and too old at the same time. He reaches over and rests his hand on the cloth-covered shoulder, his shitty tattoo pressed against Hanzo’s chest in something that isn’t even half a hug, but seems like it’s the most of one Hanzo’s had in awhile. He moves his other hand, slides it up the back of Hanzo’s arm until he’s cupping the storm clouds above his elbow, thumb resting on the curl of lightning. He opens his mouth to ask if Hanzo’s okay, but not even the faintest sound leaves his throat.

He doesn’t need to ask.

So Jesse stands there, awkwardly. Not fully embracing Hanzo, just holding him steady. Watches as the man attempts to keep his perfect face like a bust made of marble, as if Jesse can’t see the storm inside him trying to break free.

McCree swallows again and takes a breath,”You said there was a pool table, right?” They aren’t the words he meant to say. He meant to say something like _I got you_ or _you’re okay._ The kind of thing people are supposed to say in these kind of situations. Still, maybe it’s fine cause Hanzo jerks his head, and turns to look at McCree. He catches the most fleeting moment of heartache before it’s replaced by confusion.

“Yes? Why…?”

“Up for a game? Just you and me. I haven’t had a chance to play in ages.” McCree isn’t sure what his mouth is up to, but he’s willing to follow its lead. Seems to be doing better than his heart or his head right now.

Hanzo gives the faintest breath of life to a single chuckle, “I have never actually made use of it myself.”

“Ah, see, that’s a crime,” McCree gives Hanzo’s shoulder a quick squeeze before he pulls his hands back. Those nine hundred and ninety nine pieces of his heart tell him he’s imagining the flit of disappointment on Hanzo’s face as he steps back. “We gotta fix that, pronto. You lead the way, Shimada-dono.”

\----

“You’re a fucking liar and a hustler!” Hanzo doesn’t fight his smirk as McCree slams his pool cue against the edge of the table in frustration.

“If you cannot contain your temper, then perhaps we should not play,” he smiles at the positively murderous glare thrown across the green felt in his direction.

“I don’t mind losing, it’s bein’ lied to I don’t much care for,” McCree crosses his arms, and bares his teeth in a frustrated snarl. “Though I don’t much like losin’ either,” the American editorializes his own comment under his breath.

Hanzo has had a lifetime of training to ignore little pinpricks of guilt at his conscience, but this one is harder to swallow. He grinds the feeling ruthlessly beneath his heel as he smirks at McCree, “I was not lying. I have never played before. I just happen to be excellent at geometry.”

McCree groans and drags his fingers through his hair—his hat currently hangs from one of the many pool cues they passed over. “That’s even _worse!”_

Hanzo laughs, struck by the sudden thought that McCree might be exaggerating his tantrum for his benefit. _Or do you really become more incensed the calmer the other party is?_ Hanzo instantly regrets that thought, because all he wants to know now is if the man burns hotter in bed if his partner pretends to be cool and unaffected. Hanzo’s cheeks are flooded with enough warmth and blood to make him dizzy, but it’s disturbingly easy to picture McCree pinned under him, waist between his thighs. McCree gives off so much heat already, it would be easy enough for Hanzo to test his hypothesis. “Rack them up again,” his voice sounds very far away, but he’s fairly certain if McCree does not do this, Hanzo will simply clear the space and shove McCree onto the felt right there.

 _He’s not_ for you. _Stop this line of thinking at once. Do not forget what you are._ The thought does help temper his desire somewhat.

Hanzo is acutely aware of his own flaws. Enough that he can admit—to himself—that it was a tactical mistake to flirt with McCree to keep him from chasing after ghosts. It’s the tack he’s chosen, however, and he can hardly pull back completely without seeming like a man more despicable than he already is. He watches as the wolf grabs the rack—which he keeps childishly insisting is called _the triangle,_ and starts emptying the pockets around the table. The black T-shirt he’s wearing hugs his body like he was stitched into it this morning, and it rides up at the waist each time McCree leans over.

It would be easier to bear the charade if he didn’t actually _like_ McCree. It is refreshing to have someone his age around. Someone who isn’t completely cowed by his position, someone who is obnoxiously handsome despite questionable taste in headgear and tattoos. And boots. It’s enough to make Hanzo wish he was the kind of man who deserved someone like McCree in his life to begin with. The sheer proximity to Jesse, to something he cannot have makes the loneliness close around him and crack along his arms. Like his bones are too large and his skin has shrunk three sizes.

Still, even if he wasn’t completely undeserving due to his past actions, Hanzo certainly isn’t deserving of McCree’s time or attention after using his actions to dissuade McCree from doing the very job he was hired for. _I should have sent you on your way, and just dealt with the consequences_. This hell Hanzo has created is so much worse, and he only hopes that he can somehow find a way to become disentangled from the wolf as soon as possible. That is what he _should_ do, at any rate. What he _plans_ to do is very different, as long as he cannot send McCree away without drawing the suspicion of the rest of the family. Just another reason he doesn’t deserve McCree.

Hanzo waits until McCree lifts the rack away, the balls gleaming but for a few blue chalk marks, before he speaks. “McCree were you… patrolling when I found you earlier?”

“Uh, yeah I guess so?” He hangs the rack from the hook beneath the table once more.

Hanzo reaches out to run his hand along the edge of the pool table, playing coy once again, “You do not need to do this.”

McCree’s brows draw together, and he tilts his head at such an angle there is no disguising his confusion. “…’Kaaay?” He draws out the word, like he doesn’t believe Hanzo. As if it is a test for which he doesn’t have the correct answer.

“I mean it. I trust your skills. If there are ghosts here… you will eventually see them. I would hate for you to burn yourself out.”

“‘Kay,” McCree seems a little less confused, but his brows are still tightly drawn and he’s studying Hanzo with an uncomfortable level of scrutiny. Hanzo fears for a brief, irrational moment that McCree has the power to see through lies. Why would he disclose such a useful ability? The wolf could be assessing every falsehood that has passed through his lips.

“Especially when there is another job for you. You will need to travel again. I trust you will be able to take care of this before the full moon approaches. There has been… a disturbance for months. My uncle has a manor in the countryside. A farm. They say there is screaming and laughter in the middle of the night with no source, and all manner of other noises. Sleep is… difficult and hard to come by. Nothing has gotten rid of it. Neither wards nor priests. It continues to persist. If you could… apply your skills, I am sure his household would appreciate the ability to rest undisturbed once more.”

“Am I goin’ by myself?” McCree’s brows have finally relaxed and Hanzo feels a bit of relief.

“You will have an escort again. If you need magic to aid you, my uncle’s wife is particularly gifted with the arcane, though he has skills in that sphere as well. I believe you said, however, that you said the _other_ is up to the task of taking care of ghosts?” He trusts McCree to pick up the implication that handling this on his own is the preferable course of action.

“Ah, yeah. Should be, anyway.” Hanzo huffs a soft chuckle at the uncertain expression on McCree’s face.

“Where is your American bravado? Your _swagger?”_ This is the most subdued Hanzo has ever seen McCree in the short time he’s known the other man.

McCree rests his hand on the pool table as if he’s laying a hand on a casket, ready to give a eulogy. “Seems like it’s done vanished into the pockets of this here pool table. I ain’t had a thrashin’ that good in ages. Reckon I won’t be the same man ever again.”

The laugh that breaks past Hanzo’s lips is loud and undignified. He can’t fight it, however, and he has to brace himself against the polished edges of the pool table, a strange twist of warmth in his gut as McCree’s low chuckles join in. Like embers twisting off a summer bonfire into the sky. When Hanzo pushes himself upright, he isn’t prepared at all.

McCree is the hustler and liar, because Hanzo is fairly certain the man has him hexed or cursed, unable to breathe. There’s the faintest hint of a smile to the corner of his lips. It twists the thin scar that traces from the corner of his nose to his chin like a band of lightning, and Hanzo is jealous of the way it eternally kisses the corner of McCree’s mouth. He’s got a _look_ in his eyes that seems to pierce into Hanzo’s very chest but is also far away, one eye squinting ever so slightly. Like the man is judging a vast distance, instead of the relatively compact dimensions of the billiard table that separates them.

“Alright _Mr. Excellent-at-Geometry,_ care to show me how to line up a proper shot?” McCree flashes that hungry grin again, tongue following the edges of his teeth.

Hanzo is suddenly very sorry for all the advents of modern travel, and that his uncle doesn’t live in Hokkaido. Nagano isn’t nearly far enough away for McCree not to tempt him. He can only hope whatever plagues the silk farm will take a few days so that he may clear his head.

\----

There’s no hypertrain service that stops at Ina. The old bullet trains still serve their original purpose admirably enough, though that only gets them most of the way. They have to change over to an even more ancient train line before they can get to their destination. His screen reader happily informs him that the Iida Line is famous for its so called ‘secluded stations’, and artists and rail enthusiasts alike will sometimes make the trek to visit stations that were already barely used before the Crisis did anything to shake up the population demographics. McCree wonders how many ghosts he would find if he traveled the whole track from end to end.

There are portions of the line that are currently broken, uprooted by oni and undead (and omnics), but there are sizable segments that can still be traveled. Completely restoring the line is estimated to be ten years off, possibly more if the government ends up dragging its feet. Overall it’s a couple hours and change to Inashi Station. They send an omnic with him this time. Daisuke. His faceplate is bone white with silver horns. The red sweep of ‘eyes’ are at once sleepy and angry. McCree keeps finding himself wishing the red ‘mouth’ line where the two components of his chassis overlap was just a bit higher up. The proportions of Daisuke’s ‘face’ are just a bit too stretched to approximate a human and the effect is unsettling—no doubt, as is intended. McCree tries to think of the little upward divot as a kitty mouth instead of mandibles, but it still doesn’t help with the three-dimensional uncanny valley sensation of looking at Daisuke, although it is amusing.

While McCree probably could have handled the transfers by himself it’s nice that he doesn’t have to stress about decoding timetables and destinations while worrying if he’ll make the right train. He also has to admit, it’s nice to relax a bit and speak more English. Of course Hanzo speaks it perfectly, as do several other Shimada, but McCree’s been doing his best to navigate Japan while speaking Japanese. For some reason he feels less guilty about slipping into English around an omnic.

“So, Daisuke. You a big follower of the whole Iris philosophy, or nah?” The train pulling them across the countryside is going only marginally faster than a car at times. A gas car. Good hovercar would outstrip this ancient thing easy, but McCree doesn’t mind the more scenic route. Especially in something that’s like first class, with glass walls sealing the two of them in to their own little private booth. There are snow capped mountains in the distance, but McCree is still getting used to the idea that mountains can be green. When they don’t have snow, in McCree’s mind they seem more like hills aspiring to mountainhood. Just like the ones he grew up with, however, the scale was deceptive at a distance. Once you got close enough there’s no mistaking them for what they truly are.

“I follow the Shimada,” Daisuke responds evenly. There’s a certain… roundness to his robotic tenor that’s pleasing. It’s soothing, which seems odd for an omnic in the employ of the yakuza. McCree looks at the scenery as it passes by their window. There are vast swathes of pink and white that blanket the countryside as they travel past sakura groves. Even with the windows closed, and traveling at speed McCree can pick out the scent. It only gets stronger as their station grows closer. His screen reader in his lap helpfully tells him that the ruins of Kasuga Castle are prime for cherry blossom viewing, as the park boasts 200 cherry trees and a hundred times as many azaleas. This is overshadowed, of course, by the Takato Castle Ruins with somewhere in the neighborhood of one and a half thousand cherry trees, and a celebration that lasts through all of April. Easily one of the best and most well-regarded spots for cherry blossom viewing in all of Japan. It’s early enough in the month, he hopes, that the congestion won’t be too bad around the train station.

“Hm, guess that makes two of us,” McCree settles into the seat. They still have a few minutes before the train pulls into the station completely. “How long you been with ‘em?”

Daisuke tips his head at a thoughtful angle. “Hm, that is difficult to say, given my… absence.” The cyan lights at Daisuke’s forehead pulse softly, though McCree knows just enough to know better than to peg it as any kind of indicator of the speed of the Omnic’s thinking. McCree isn’t good with magic to begin with, and he doesn’t even begin to understand any of the shit or higher principles that make up the complex marriage of magic and magically accelerated processing cycles. Much less the messy, messy discussion of what omnics even are. Before the Crisis, omnics were self-aware beings. A sophisticated mesh of magic, data, artificial intelligence, and processors. Nowadays omnics are a little… different. More individual, less collective in their identities and experiences. And every day there’s a new think piece touting what sort of consequences the Crisis had on omnics.

McCree doesn’t even pay attention and he’s pretty sure he’s heard it all. The necromantic magic used by their demon overlords transferred souls (or pieces of souls) and living memories into omnics. The necromantic magic omnics had been exposed to somehow changed the underlying arcane matrices (whatever the hell those are) within their beings. The necromantic magic imparted _true_ intelligence and personhood onto omnics by transmuting their intelligence into the same stuff as living souls. The changes in omnics are the result of collective trauma that non-synthetic life-forms can’t hope to comprehend. Omnics are the same, only they express more individuality due to the long cycles they weren’t allowed to network with each other. Omnics are all secretly possessed by demons waiting for their second chance at claiming this world as theirs.

He doesn’t bother asking Daisuke what he remembers. Omnics can’t give an account of it—though there’s plenty who think that it’s _won’t._ It’s an uncomfortable mystery that neither magic nor data recovery has been able to solve just yet. Adding to the general suspicion of omnics that still hasn’t really healed.

McCree tries not to stare too obviously at the horns on Daisuke’s head. “Well, uh, when did you start with the family then? Roughly speaking?”

“It was the third of May of the year 2027. A Friday. The cherry blossoms were late that year. Still in full bloom when I swore my fealty.” The omnic neatly clasped his hands in his lap. Almost a meditative pose.

“That’s getting to be a hot minute.”

“It is 29 years, eleven months, and one week,” the omnic tips his head, the lights pulsing at his forehead rapidly. “Much longer than a minute.”

“It’s, uh, an expression,” McCree rubs the back of his neck. There’s a long squeal of metal on metal as the brakes engage, signaling their final approach.

“McCree,” Daisuke drops the volume on his voice by a good fifty percent.

He leans in a little to hear the omnic over the breaks, “Yeah?”

“Please pretend you do not speak Japanese until we return to Hanamura. This is a request from the kumicho himself.”

McCree sits back in the chair, just as the metal grinding stops. “Why? I mean, sure I’ll do it I guess, but… why didn’t Hanzo tell me himself?”

“So that no one else would hear,” Daisuke’s voice is nearly lost to the general mill of activity outside their small compartment, of people unloading in a mass exodus. No one gives them as much as a second glance through the windows that separate them. An uncomfortable chill settles over McCree. He wonders if Hanzo would trust him to look out for betrayal if he knew the truth about how Blackwatch fell apart.

“I get it. That mean my report goes through you when we’re done?” Daisuke shook his head.

“If there is anything to report, advise me of this. We can then make arrangements for you to give your report directly.”

McCree spares a glance from the corners of his vision. No ghosts out there among the people exiting the train. “Awful trusting of him, ain’t it?” Maybe it’s a test. Or maybe Shimada figures that he’s not invested in whatever cutthroat politics his family has going on. _Well, he’s not wrong there, I guess._ From the intel Jesse picked up, Hanzo hasn’t been the official head of the family for even a full year. Of course, he was groomed for it from birth, but it wasn’t official until a little while ago. With his father passing, and his position being so new, Jesse supposes it’s natural for Hanzo to be suspicious. McCree’s feeling a little out of his depth. There’s already things he didn’t really know, or think to look into too deeply. Like the brother Hanzo lost somewhere along the way.

Daisuke shrugs, “That is not for me to say. Do be advised Blackwatch McCree, that my loyalty to the kumicho is my highest priority. Please remember that.”

McCree chuckles, keeping his voice low, “Well, the only reason I’m here at all is because of him. Seems like it’d be mighty foolish to pick any side other than his.” There’s a terrible twisting in his guts, and he wonders how quickly he’d be disposed of if someone other than Hanzo was running the show. Maybe he _should_ do more to try and cozy up to Hanzo, but he feels a wave of nausea hit him as he considers all of Gérard’s advice. McCree bites his tongue to pull himself out of the past, though he’s careful not to draw blood.

“I am glad we are in agreement,” Daisuke lurches to his feet, and adjusts his three-piece suit. McCree wonders how long he’s going to get away with his shitty tees and casual wear. Still, he hasn’t been sent to a tailor yet, so it seems like he doesn’t have to cram himself into a tie any time soon.

“So like, no Japanese at all, or can I at least stumble through the basics?” McCree adjusts his hat, making sure it’s secure as he gets up as well.

“Hm,” Daisuke ponders the question. “I was told none. I suppose basic pleasantries may be expected, but the less you appear to know the better.”

“Read you loud and clear.” McCree is more than happy to perform his _ignorant American_ song and dance at Hanzo’s request. He traces the edge of his hat once more, “Alright, get this show on the road I guess.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title be from ["Bloom" by The Paper Kites](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8inJtTG_DuU). I would like to thank Checkers for looking at this chapter and letting me know if my fears about emotional whiplash were founded or not. 
> 
> Coming up next in _Shit Nobody Asked for That I Will Deliver On:_ my Hot Take™ on hanahaki. It'll be... hopefully unique enough to be interesting, and I apologize in advance if hanahaki stuff isn't your jam. (It's usually not mine!) It's not our main boys tho, if that sets any hearts at ease. Figured I'd lay down a fair warning. Also I would die for Daisuke he is the best robot husband please join me at my upcoming TED talk.


End file.
